The Darker Side of the Soul
by Weapon of Choice
Summary: A modernized version of A Study in Scarlet set in college, with a student who goes by the name of Sherlock. Hmmmmm...I wonder.
1. My White Knight

A/N  
  
This story is loosely based on the Study in Scarlet set in college. Damien/Sherlock is not really supposed to be Sherlock, and I would have him look like Orlando Bloom (everyone throws things at the author). I know, I know, how fangirlish, but that's really what I think he looks like. Anyhow, my only request is that if you read it, please review it.  
  
THANKS!  
  
  
  
Growing up I had always wanted to work in forensics. Being a crime scene investigator was my dream job, so when I was accepted to college that had a great program I was naturally thrilled. Then my father died. I had to switch colleges to be closer to my mother and I was left thinking about what I really wanted to do with my life. I was so confused. I was thinking about that as I unpacked my things into my new dorm room. I hadn't even met my roommate yet, and being shy, felt really uncomfortable in my new situation. I was putting socks in my drawer when a girl entered.  
  
"Hi!" she said chipperly, "you must be Shelley."  
  
She was perfect; perfect blond hair, perfect body, perfect everything. I immediately felt inferior.  
  
"Yeah," I said unconsciously trying to straighten my unruly brown hair, "that's me."  
  
"I'm Adrianne Echols," said the super model.  
  
"Great," I thought, "of all the dorms to get stuck in, I'm with the one girl who looks like she hasn't missed a date in 3 years. Story of my life."  
  
"Well, I have class," she said, "we'll get to know each other later."  
  
With that she flounced out of the room.  
  
"Can't wait," I muttered.  
  
I walked over to the dresser and paused to look at myself in the mirror. Normal brown hair, normal body, normal everything. I had been the one all though school who had always been studying too hard to socialize. I had dated, but never really had tome for guys, and everyone had always taken that as me being aloof. Maybe it was.  
  
I sighed and yanked open the drawer. Apparently too hard because the whole think and the box on top of it toppled over on me with a crash to wake the dead. Luckily there wasn't much in the dresser so it didn't weigh a lot; unluckily the box was full of books. I groaned and rubbed my forehead where a particularly heavy volume of Dickens had rebounded off.  
  
"Are you all right?" said a smooth, distinctly English voice.  
  
I looked up to see what, in my definition, was one of the best looking guys I had ever seen. He was almost 6 feet, thin yet built like the Greek statues we studied in art class with cheekbones and facial features to match and short tousled dark brown hair. And there I was floundering on the floor like a beached dolphin.  
  
"I…I think I'm ok," I managed to get out as I shoved a copy of Pride and Prejudice off myself.  
  
With three quick strides he was across the room and pulling the dresser off me.  
  
"Thank…thank you," I stammered as I continued to extricate myself from the literary avalanche.  
  
"They would all have to be hardbound wouldn't they," I muttered in disgust as I rubbed my bruise.  
  
"It's not everyone who gets KO'd by The Count of Monte Cristo," my white knight said as he tossed the book into the box.  
  
"I think it was Oliver Twist actually," I said.  
  
He laughed and pulled me up. I shoved the rest of the books in the box then turned and saw him leaving.  
  
"Wait," I called, "who do I say saved me from the man eating dresser?"  
  
He turned.  
  
"Damien Holmes, but everyone calls me Sherlock."  
  
With that he disappeared into the room across the hall. 


	2. Character Profile

Later that evening Adrianne came back in.  
  
"Guy down the hall said it sounded like an explosion down here," she said looking around.  
  
"Yeah," I said sheepishly, "I kinda knocked the dresser over. A guy across the hall had to save me."  
  
"Who, Jack?"  
  
"No," I said, "some guy named Damien or something. He sounded British."  
  
"Oh," Adrianne said rolling her eyes, "Sherlock. Mr. Smarter-than-thou. He's Jack's roommate and he's about as stuck up as they come. Never dates, never parties, just either locks himself in the room or stakes out the library."  
  
"He's good looking," I offered with a slight blush.  
  
"Yeah," Adrianne admitted, "nice to ogle, but what a jerk."  
  
"All I know is he rescued me from some classic literature," I said.  
  
Adrianne gave me a funny look and I didn't bother to explain.  
  
"All the girls have made a pass at him at some point, but he's either rude or ignores them. Jack thinks he's done drugs at some point," she went on, "Jack's in the forensics program with him and he says he reads crime novels all the time. I personally think it's creepy."  
  
Adrianne smiled, "Obviously you realize he's rather a topic of conversation around here. Our resident freak."  
  
"I guess so," I said.  
  
Yet for some reason that just made me more interested. Not that I went for bad boys, they just intrigued me in a professional way. I always wondered what made them tick.  
  
"Why do you all call him Sherlock?" I asked.  
  
"The crime novels and his last name," Adrianne said with a shrug, "it just kinda stuck."  
  
I was thoughtful. My psychologist mind started working a profile of the guy.  
  
misanthropic  
  
alleged drug use  
  
workaholic/perfectionist  
  
obsessed with crime  
  
"OK Shelley," I thought to myself, " he sounds like a real winner."  
  
When I started to pay attention to Adrianne again I realized she was talking about herself, something I figured out over time was a favorite topic of conversation with her. About her boyfriends, the sorority she was president of, her friends. I realized there was nothing wrong with Adrianne; she was just shallow and talked a lot. You could zone out after a sentence or two and when you started paying attention again you realized you hadn't missed anything.  
  
When I finally got to bed I managed to have a weird dream about blond sorority girls and a good-looking English guy in a deerstalker. That's when I vowed off eating cold pizza so close to bedtime. 


	3. An Unpleasant Run-In

I had adjusted pretty well when the proverbial bottom fell out. I had two papers due at once and midterms in calculus, a subject I had never been good at. I couldn't stand the noise in the dorm so I went to the relative calm of the library. I have always liked libraries. I guess because I've always liked books. I found a free desk in the corner and lost myself in cosines and tangents, and I do mean lost because I couldn't make heads or tails out of the stuff. I guess it showed.  
  
"Don't hurt yourself."  
  
I jerked my head up like I'd been shot.  
  
"You're at my desk."  
  
I spun around to see my dorm neighbor standing behind me and apparently waiting for me to move. I had been studying hard and Sherlock standing there watching me was enough to throw me off.  
  
"Excuse me?!" I said in disbelief.  
  
"I said you're sitting at my desk," Sherlock said like he was explaining to a three year old.  
  
He had annoyed me enough for me to stand up for myself.  
  
"And you just want me to pick up my stuff and leave?" I said letting my irritation show, "you've got to be kidding."  
  
"I'm not," Sherlock said with a look that plainly stated he expected me to move.  
  
"You are this time, buddy," I snapped and turned back around.  
  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and before I realized what was happening he had walked over, picked me up, and unceremoniously dumped me into one of the couches next to the desk in the study area. He turned, grabbed my books and dropped them on the coffee table in front of me. I had never been so shocked or embarrassed in my life. Several of the other students had noticed the disturbance and watched in interest. My face felt on fire as I gathered my books.  
  
"You jerk," I hissed at him.  
  
"You were at my desk," he said unconcernedly.  
  
"It's a public library," I choked out, "and I was here first."  
  
"Technically it's not public," Sherlock said, not even looking up.  
  
I grabbed my things and hurriedly retreated from the library. Tears of frustration and embarrassment prickled the back of my eyes. The nerve of that jerk! Was this the same guy who had jumped to my rescue before? I seemed like complete Jekyll and Hyde.  
  
"He's horrible," I said as I threw my things down on my bed back in the dorm.  
  
Adrianne looked up from doing her nails.  
  
"Who?"  
  
I proceed to tell her about my humiliating run-in.  
  
"What a creep," she said sympathetically, " you should have reported him."  
  
I admitted I hadn't even thought about that.  
  
"Just as long as he stays away from me," I said, "or next time I might deck him."  
  
This thought rang in my mind as I rushed in late for criminal psych class two days later. I was ten minutes behind schedule and as I frantically glanced around I realized there was only one desk I could get to without making a scene. It was in the corner next to a certain Damien Holmes. In desperation I went and sat down, refusing to look at him. As long as he left me alone we would be fine.  
  
"So," I finally caught the professor saying, "here's the criteria for your next assignment. I want you to find a murder case, doesn't matter from what era as long as it's unsolved, and write a character profile of who you think the murderer is. I want you working in teams of two so pair off right now and get your plans together."  
  
"No," I thought, "oh please, no."  
  
I was in the corner and the only person near enough to pair off with me was a snotty Englishman. Maybe he would just ignore me and I could find someone else. My luck didn't hold.  
  
"Listen," Sherlock said with not further introduction, "I can do this on my own, so all you really need to do is stay out of my way."  
  
"Oh no, no way," I shot back, "if I earn an A it's not going to be on your alleged genius. I pull my own weight, and I'm not going to get into your precious way."  
  
He eyed me and looked dubious.  
  
"You listen to me, buddy," I said as leaned toward him, "if you do anything without consulting me I will report you. You're lucky I didn't with the library incident."  
  
Sherlock gave me a sardonic smile.  
  
"All right, love," he said with a shrug, "you asked for it."  
  
I had never been in such a long class as that one, and I don't think I've ever disliked anyone in my life as much as I did Sherlock Holmes at that moment. 


	4. Wake Up Call

The next day was a Saturday, my chance to sleep in. Only this particular Saturday I was awakened by a banging on my dorm door.  
  
"Make it stop," Adrianne mumbled into her pillow.  
  
I staggered out of bed and over to the door. I cracked it to see Sherlock standing outside.  
  
"I thought you'd be ready by now," he said with a smug smile that I just wanted to slap off his face. Had I ever really found this guy attractive?  
  
"Ready for what?" I said, horrified to know the answer.  
  
"I've found our project."  
  
He gave annoying emphasis on the word 'our'.  
  
"I'll be ready in a minute, unless you want me to go like this," I said, determined not to let him one up me.  
  
Sherlock eyed my boxers and tank top that I wore to bed.  
  
"I'll wait," he said, "and you might want to brush your teeth too."  
  
I growled as I slammed the door on him and I thought I heard a chuckle come from the hall. In ten minutes I was at least presentable, though I had been tempted not to brush my teeth just to spite Sherlock. He was leaning against the wall across the hall when I emerged from the room. Wearing a plain white t-shirt and dark blue jeans he somehow managed to pull off a look that would have made a Versace model nervous about job security.  
  
"Why does he have to be such a jerk?" I bemoaned to myself, "he would be such a catch otherwise."  
  
"So what's going on?" I asked as I followed him down the hall.  
  
"Well Miss Cordell," he said in that perfect accent as he held the door for me, "I happen to be friends with the chief-of-police and he has our unsolved murder."  
  
I followed him to the parking lot.  
  
"We can take my car," he said walking over to a new yellow Mustang and opening the passenger side door for me, "I know where we're going."  
  
Again I was baffled by the contradiction this guy posed. Insulting me one minute, opening doors for me the next.  
  
"Nice wheels," I commented.  
  
He shot a grimace as he put the key in the ignition.  
  
"Guilt offering," he said.  
  
I let the conversation drop there and rode in silence until we pulled up to an apartment building surrounded by police cars. I looked around nervously.  
  
"Are you sure we're supposed to be here?" I asked.  
  
"It's fine," he said glancing around for someone.  
  
I suddenly saw a burly older police officer walking toward us. Sherlock lunged out of the car.  
  
"Paul!" he said with more enthusiasm than I'd seen him put into anything.  
  
The officer grinned and shook his hand only to pull him into a backslapping hug.  
  
"How are you, Damien-boy," the officer said as he released Sherlock then with out waiting for an answer looking in the car, "brought a date this time I see."  
  
I blushed and scrambled out of the Mustang.  
  
"This is my project partner, Shelley Cordell," Sherlock said, apparently forgetting to be abrasive in his enthusiasm, "she said she'd report me if I did the project without her and I said she was on."  
  
Sherlock spun around to me.  
  
"This is Police Chief Paul Hawthorne," he said then turned back to Chief Hawthorne, "and I think she'd rather see me fall off the face of the earth than date me."  
  
Hawthorne chuckled.  
  
"Don't let him fool you, Miss," he said to me, "his bark is worse than his bite."  
  
"Could've fooled me," I muttered under my breath as I shook the Chief's hand.  
  
"Now then," said Hawthorne, "let me show you our crime scene." 


	5. Blood and Ash

When we entered the apartment the first thing I noticed was how cheap looking it was. Paint peeling off the wall and water spots on the ceiling. In the middle of the floor was the body of a man in is early twenties. His right hand was situated on a handgun and there was a bullet hole in his temple. My stomach turned a little but then professional instincts took over.  
  
"Who is he?" I asked.  
  
"According to the driver's license we got off of him," said Hawthorne, "he's a Daniel Goodland."  
  
Sherlock had put on gloves and was kneeling next to the body.  
  
"This looks self-inflicted," he said pointing to the handgun, "the gun is placed exactly as if he shot himself."  
  
"I expect to confirm that when we get back the results for powder burns," the chief said, "and we could have excepted that until we found this."  
  
He pointed to the wall were the word 'RACHE' was written in what looked like blood.  
  
"There are no other wounds on his body," said Hawthorne, "and I don't think he was going anywhere after he shot himself."  
  
"If he had no other wounds," I said walking over to a night table, "then he couldn't have done this either."  
  
I pointed to gouts of blood on the floor.  
  
"It doesn't fit the spray pattern for the bullet wound either," Sherlock stated, "it had to come from someone else."  
  
"Unless he got a nosebleed," I added.  
  
"The landlady said that he had been gone all day and that she thought she had seen him come back with someone else. She heard the gunshot and called the police. They clean the rooms everyday here, so the maid would have noticed blood anywhere," Hawthorne said.  
  
"That means this is the other person's," Sherlock stated matter of factly.  
  
"DNA?" I asked hopefully.  
  
"That would be helpful," the chief said, "if we had a suspect."  
  
  
  
"You do," Sherlock said as he stood up, "he was over 6 feet, wore Nike's, is a smoker, and probably red-faced."  
  
I stared at him.  
  
"Easy enough," he said looking at me," the shoe imprints on the floor. If the maid vacuumed that morning and he hadn't been back, that means any tracks had to happen when he and his visitor came back in. He's wearing boots so that means the Nike imprints were the other person's, and judging by stride, the visitor was over 6 six feet."  
  
"Red-faced?" Hawthorne questioned.  
  
"Since there was obviously no struggle, the blood splatters over on the other side of the room have to be from the other person, and from the way they are situated I would say from a nosebleed. He's an easy bleeder when excited, thus more coloration of face," Sherlock explained.  
  
"You can't prove that," I said.  
  
"True," Sherlock admitted, "but it's a good assumption."  
  
"The smoker part is easy enough," I said looking at some ash on the floor next to a police marker, "there aren't any ash trays in here so the victim obviously wasn't the one smoking."  
  
Sherlock eyed me closely and nodded. I stepped closer to the writing on the wall.  
  
"He had long fingernails too," I said, looking at the writing, "this was written with a finger and there are scratch marks in the paint where his nail hit."  
  
Hawthorne looked at Sherlock with amused surprise.  
  
"Where did you dig this one up?" he said with a laugh, "she's as quick as you are."  
  
Sherlock had acquired a funny look on his face as he watched me.  
  
"His?" Hawthorne said going back to the killing, "what makes you think it was a man? That writing looks an awful lot like an unfinished 'RACHEL' to me. Plus we found this under the body."  
  
He produced a plastic bag with a woman's ring in it.  
  
"Huh," Sherlock said, not sounding a bit impressed, "what is it you told me about never jumping to conclusions?"  
  
"Especially when 'rache' also means 'revenge' in German" I added.  
  
Both men turned and stared at me like I'd just grown another head. I just smiled. 


	6. The Darker Side of the Soul

"All right, what was all that back there," Sherlock said once we were back in the car.  
  
"That was me analyzing a crime scene," I said simply, "you're not the only one with talent you know."  
  
He gave a rueful smile.  
  
"So I see."  
  
"Though I wouldn't have thought of the shoe prints," I admitted.  
  
Male ego slightly appeased, Sherlock started to morph back into a slight semblance of friendliness. I hoped I had impressed him enough to get a little respect.  
  
"How do you know the police chief?" I asked.  
  
Sherlock gave what looked like a rather pained smile.  
  
"When I was younger and a lot stupider I did drugs," he said, "Paul saw me in detention at the station and eventually realized I was a natural at crime scene investigation. He wanted me to get cleaned up before I killed myself or someone else and he thought teaching me what he knew might accomplish that. I wanted to learn, he wanted me clean, so we made a deal. I haven't touch the stuff in four years, and Paul has sort of made me his protégée."  
  
Sherlock smiled.  
  
"I never wanted to let Paul down, he really went out on a limb for me. When I got accepted to college I decided to be serious about something for once. Hence my being a little intense."  
  
"But I thought you were from England," I said.  
  
"I am. My Mum moved here with me about eight years ago. That's another story."  
  
And one I wasn't going to press for. Sherlock had probably just told me more about himself than anyone else on campus knew. He had more facets than I had ever imagined, and slowly a bit of a clearer image was forming of him in my mind.  
  
"But crime?" I asked.  
  
"Everyone has a darker side of the soul," he said with a glance over to me, "I just happen to be very well acquainted with mine. I guess it puts me on an even playing field with the bad guy."  
  
There was a lull in conversation.  
  
"Are you any good at math?" I asked, changing the subject.  
  
"I have a 4.0 if that answers your question. Why?"  
  
"Because I suck at it and I have a test," I answered.  
  
A slight smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.  
  
"Is this your round about way of asking me for help without really asking me?"  
  
"You catch on quick," I said with a grin.  
  
"Then I suppose you've forgiven me for the little incident in the library?" he said.  
  
"Not a chance," I shot back, "that's going to come back and haunt you for a long time."  
  
Sherlock laughed. A real one. Not one of those slightly bitter attempts at one I'd heard once or twice. A real one that started from an open, gorgeous smile. It was sort of soft for a guy, but then his speaking voice was rather subdued anyway. No telling what he could do if he every really figured out how to turn on the charm.  
  
"I tell you what," he said, "you provide the food, I'll help you. And we can work on this project together while we're at it."  
  
"So you think I'm worthy to work with now?"  
  
"You show potential," he said smugly, "you can almost keep up with me."  
  
He parked the car.  
  
"You know," I said as I got out, "you might have more friends if you didn't have the manners of a rabid pit bull."  
  
"It hasn't seemed to throw you off," he shot back, "so why are you complaining."  
  
He had me there. Touché. 


	7. Damien's Story

Sunday night I retired to a couch in the corner of the downstairs dorm study area with a pizza.  
  
"If he doesn't show, I'm eating it all," I promised myself.  
  
Fortunately for my health I didn't have to wait too long. Before I could eat my first piece Damien was throwing himself down on the other end of the couch. He yawned and ran a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to bring it to some order. Seeming to realize that it was useless, he reached for the pizza.  
  
"I didn't sleep last night and I haven't eaten since this morning," he muttered as he chewed.  
  
"And who's fault is that?" I said as I watched him wolf down the food, "I bet you haven't taken a shower either."  
  
"No, I haven't" he said with a roguish grin, "that's what cologne is for."  
  
I rolled my eyes.  
  
"So what was important enough to make you give up hygiene?" I asked.  
  
"Going through old case files at the station and back issues of the newspaper in the library."  
  
Somehow that answer didn't surprise me in the slightest.  
  
"And?"  
  
"And I found out a good deal about Mr. Goodland," Sherlock said, "seems he was in a gang, the Scorpions. Not a pacifist group by any means either. They were territory rivals with the Westenders and the White Knights. The White Knights were neo-Nazis."  
  
"Gang hit?" I said, "that would explain the German."  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
"First, I don't think a rival gang could have gotten Mr. Goodland to voluntarily blow his head off and secondly all active members of the gang are either behind bars or dead. They were basically wiped out by the police and rival gangs."  
  
"So the German was a set up," I commented.  
  
"Looks like it," Sherlock said.  
  
"So we still have nothing," I said sadly.  
  
"We're getting there," he said, "now about that calculus."  
  
Two hours later I had a slight grasp on my test material while Sherlock looked like he was about to give way to exhaustion.  
  
"I'm sorry," I said, "you really did help me though. That used to be my father's job."  
  
"Stealing his work am I?"  
  
"He died a few months ago," I said with a slight catch in my throat.  
  
Sherlock jerked his head up.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said, genuinely sounding so, "I didn't know."  
  
"It's all right. I'm sort of coping," I said, "it was a car wreck. I had no regrets about stuff with us when he was alive so that helps you know? I have nothing I'd want to do over."  
  
Sherlock became very quite. I figured I had made him uncomfortable.  
  
"I don't know where my real father is," he said suddenly, "I don't want to know. He wasn't a good person."  
  
I got the feeling he didn't want to stop there so I waited.  
  
"He treated my Mum…" he trailed off, trying to keep his face impassive, "that's why we left."  
  
I impulsively put my hand on his wrist. What he wasn't saying was how his father had treated him. I imagined the worst.  
  
"Anyone who touches a woman like that doesn't deserve to be in society," he said with bitter intensity, "it's only a coward who knocks around a woman who can't defend herself and never did anything. And I didn't do anything about it."  
  
"It wasn't your fault."  
  
"It felt like it. I should have been able to stop it."  
  
That's when I realized Damien Holmes' less than cordial personality was just an attempt of a little boy to protect himself and make up for guilt over something he had no control over.  
  
"We came to the US and she got remarried eventually," he went on, "my stepfather is pretty well off, so I think Mum always tried to make up for what happened by giving me everything she could. She never understood. My stepfather didn't understand. My stepbrother never understood."  
  
He looked at me and snapped back to the present.  
  
"I shouldn't have gotten into that," he said, "I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be, I'm not telling anyone, and you need to talk, I do too."  
  
He smiled and we suddenly both jerked when his cell phone went off at that minute.  
  
"Hullo," he said and after a moment, "we'll be there tomorrow."  
  
He turned off the phone and looked up at me.  
  
"There was another murder with another 'RACHE'. And this one didn't shoot himself." 


	8. Another Murder and Damien Gets Annoying

The next morning Sherlock was standing outside my dorm door waiting impatiently.  
  
"What?" I said, "I've got class."  
  
"You can miss one this time," he said, "you won't fail by missing a class."  
  
"If I do I'm holding you fully responsible," I muttered as I grabbed a jacket and ran out the door after him.  
  
We pulled up at another apartment building when Chief Hawthorne came out to meet us.  
  
"Another body," he said, "no real evidence this time either except for the 'RACHE' written on the wall in blood. No one saw anything, though we do have a suspect. The landladies son disappeared before we could question him."  
  
I followed the two men into the room and was again greeted by the sight of a dead man stretched out on the floor. There was no weapon and the gunshot had been to the chest.  
  
"Where is the landlady?" Sherlock said immediately.  
  
"Downstairs, follow me."  
  
In a room on the ground floor, a frightened looking young woman and a fierce older lady sat watching us enter.  
  
"This is Mrs. Ellis and her daughter Marion," Chief Hawthorne said, "like I said, the son Brennen disappeared before he could be questioned."  
  
"My son did nothing," the older lady said empathetically, " you have no reason to question him."  
  
Sherlock ignored her and made a beeline for the young woman.  
  
"What can you tell me about the man upstairs," he said gently.  
  
Marion Ellis turned several shades of white before she burst out in tears.  
  
"His name was Allen Michaels," the landlady snapped, "and we know nothing about him."  
  
Sherlock spun on the woman and gave her a disgusted glare.  
  
"I think I was asking your daughter not you, ma'am," he said with even disdain, turning back around to the younger woman.  
  
"Did you know Mr. Michaels," Sherlock said.  
  
"He had been living here a very short time," she said with a quaver, "he only talked to me a few times."  
  
"About what," Sherlock pressed.  
  
She took on a panicky look again then burst out crying for the second time.  
  
"He made bad comments to me," she sobbed, "I told Brennen and he said he'd kill him if he did it again."  
  
"Now you've just gotten your brother in trouble," the landlady shouted, "now they're going to arrest him."  
  
"They would have found out anyway," Marion Ellis sobbed out, "he threatened him in front of everyone."  
  
"I don't think you have much to worry about," Sherlock said to the two women, "just tell him to show up for questioning. He's not in too much trouble yet."  
  
Back in the car I waited for Sherlock to start talking. When that didn't happen I sighed and started prodding him with questions.  
  
"So you've ruled Brennen Ellis out without ever talking to him?" I said.  
  
"It was his sister," Damien said with a sigh, "he was trying to protect her. If I had been him I would have done the same thing."  
  
"So you don't think he carried out the threat?"  
  
"No, he had nothing to do with the other killing and he couldn't have known about the 'RACHE'. He just happened to make an unfortunate comment at the wrong time."  
  
"So we're back to nowhere," I sighed.  
  
"Not at all," Sherlock said smiling, "I think I've just figured out who our murderer is and why."  
  
"WHAT?!?!"  
  
If Sherlock had expected to get a rise out of me by making that statement, he wasn't disappointed. He looked at me smugly again.  
  
"Remember how I said I stayed up all night reading back issues of the newspaper?" he asked, "well, it was time put to good use. After class meet me down at the station and I'll explain it all to you."  
  
"You're not going to now?"  
  
He shot me a wicked look.  
  
"I think you can live in suspense for a while. It gives me time to talk to Paul and straighten things out. Oh, and while you're in class, take notes for me, I don't think I'm going to make it."  
  
If looks could kill, Damien would have been dead on the spot. Fortunately for him we were already back at the parking lot and he didn't have ample opportunity to see the evil eye I gave him take effect. 


	9. The End of the Beginning

If Damien expected me to take good notes he had another thing coming. I had no idea what was going on in class in my attempts to figure out what he had seen and I hadn't. I was counting the fact that he had spent the night in research as an unfair advantage in his favor. By the time I got to the police station I was completely confused.  
  
"All right," I said as I found him in the lobby, "you have got some explaining to do."  
  
"My pleasure," came the smooth reply.  
  
I followed him back to a holding room and sat down to wait. Soon two police officers came in with a young man in between them. Chief Hawthorne followed. The young man looked about twenty and had a red face from exertion and panic. He had shaggy brown hair and long fingers that looked like they hadn't seen a trim in a while. He sat down in the chair across from us. I shot a look over to Sherlock.  
  
"This," he said, "is Garret Freeman. Mr. Freeman has already confessed, but maybe he would like to clear things up a bit."  
  
The man squirmed around a bit, lit a cigarette, then finally started talking.  
  
"I didn't kill Daniel. He shot himself. It was gang rules."  
  
Freeman squirmed in his chair again, seeming at a loss to explain himself. Sherlock took the hint and prompted him.  
  
"Why did you kill Mr. Goodland and Mr. Michaels," he asked, "or should I explain?"  
  
"I was part of the Scorpions," Freeman began, "so where Daniel and Allen. We were gang buddies and all, but I met a girl. Her name was Sierra. Her brother was in the Eastenders, so obviously a romance between me and her wasn't going to fly with the guys. I wanted to leave the gang so I could be with her, but they wouldn't let me. Finally one day I just walked out on them. The next day Sierra was dead in gang crossfire."  
  
Freeman was obviously emotional by this point in his narrative.  
  
"They couldn't prove who had shot her," he said, "but I knew. Another gang member told me afterward. Allen and Daniel had both been there and they had both let it happen."  
  
He looked up painfully at Sherlock.  
  
"I loved her," was all he said.  
  
"But you didn't kill Goodland," Sherlock said.  
  
"No," Freeman started again, "I cornered him in the apartment and demanded retribution. Gang rules are fate chooses the guilty. So you load only one bullet in the chamber and see who gets it."  
  
"Russian roulette," I put in.  
  
Freeman nodded.  
  
"Only Michaels was too afraid to carry through with it so you shot him," Sherlock finished.  
  
Freeman hung his head.  
  
"He came at me," he said, "the gun went off and he was dead. I don't know why I put 'RACHE' on the wall. I guess in the back of my mind I thought someone would think it was a gang hit. When Daniel died I accidentally dropped a ring Sierra had given me. I was so upset I tried to go back in to get it but I saw the landlady there already."  
  
"I think that's enough," Chief Hawthorne broke in.  
  
With that Freeman was lead out of the room by the police officers.  
  
"All right," I said turning to Damien, "what did you see that I didn't."  
  
He grinned like a master magician about to reveal his tricks.  
  
"A newspaper article really," he said, "I know a thing or two about gang rules, so when I saw that the first killing was a suicide, I immediately thought about a retribution rite. Sort of like dueling. When I found out the second victim it all sort of clicked. There were accounts in the paper about a girl getting killed in gang crossfire and Goodland and Michaels were specifically pointed out as suspects, but no one could place them so they got off. It also said that the girl killed was related to a boy from the rival gang. I first thought it was the brother, but he never would have gotten Goodland to shoot himself. That left someone in the Scorpions, who knew Goodland, to carry out retribution. It didn't take a whole lot of asking around to find out that Freeman had recently left the gang over girl trouble."  
  
Sherlock smiled.  
  
"Amazing what you can learn when you have a gang member or two cornered at the station. They were only too willing to answer any questions the police had."  
  
Chief Hawthorne beamed at Sherlock.  
  
"Good job boy. You saved us a lot of trouble," he said, "I expect the results will come back conclusively when the DNA sample from the blood is matched to Freeman."  
  
Damien nodded.  
  
"Not bad," I admitted as we walked back to the cars, "you did solve that one, but our project is supposed to be an unsolved murder. You just ruined it."  
  
He shrugged.  
  
"We can always do Jack the Ripper like everyone else," he said, then grinned, "you have to admit actually solving something is more fun."  
  
I could only nod.  
  
"So," he said, a little awkwardly, "you want to meet to do this project sometime?"  
  
I realized Sherlock didn't have much social grace and this might be his best attempt at keeping a friend. He was infuriating, smart mouthed, and arrogant, but he looked lonely too, and truth to tell, I was kinda lonely. I just hoped I didn't act the same way in public.  
  
"Yeah," I said, "I'd love to. Meet you around 5 tomorrow?"  
  
"You're on."  
  
~Finis~  
  
A/N  
  
I've had so much fun writing this one, and y'all have been such nice reviewers, I'm going to keep going with this Damien/Shelley story line. Keep up the reviews, without them I don't know how I'm doing.  
  
~ Anarkyn AKA the real Damien Holmes 


End file.
